


The Hand That Feeds

by nottodaythx



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Physical Abuse, Rated For Violence, being cruel to each other, rated for thematic content, slaughter of an animal, two unpleasant individuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22286638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottodaythx/pseuds/nottodaythx
Summary: A year since the contract was made, both parties bound by it are finding the chain uncomfortable to bear. Though their methods differ, when their patience is tested, neither can resist the urge to snap their jaws at the hand which feeds them.
Relationships: Ciel Phantomhive & Tanaka, Sebastian Michaelis & Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	The Hand That Feeds

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not ignore the tags.
> 
> If there is something in them that you find distasteful, I would ask that you simply click back now. Continuing to read beyond this point is a choice that you have made, and not the author's responsibility.

Tensions boiled over that evening in the Phantomhive household – it was quite inevitable, as there was no way to lower the flames. The Demon was more aware of that fact than any. Were there any viable plays, it surely would have made them. To be the architect of _another’s_ suffering, that was quite the delight. To be the architect of its own… a much less favorable set of circumstances, it would have to admit.

When had the day become irretrievable?

When it dodged a pillow to the face that morning, both hands occupied with the tea service, for daring to wake the young master as standing orders explicitly dictated? When the day’s messages were torn to pieces and relegated to the tender mercies of the fireplace, completely irrespective of their importance? When all the tutors were dismissed with a scowl and a stomp of a little heeled boot? When it was ordered by the tiny tyrant to discard his luncheon, completely untouched—?

Yes, that was the probable point of no return. After all, was any creature at its most agreeable on an empty stomach?

 _It_ certainly was growing less so by the minute; an impressive feat considering many of its kind went decades without a substantial meal, and sometimes a century or more.

Ah, but what a delicacy it would have at hand to break its long fast.

It finished arranging the single setting of china. Straightened a serving dish, dabbed away a stray speck of sauce. Confirmed the brilliance of the silver and the sparkling clarity of the crystal.

_Yes, yes. All in perfect order. Very good._

All that remained was to fetch its little morsel down to dinner.

Nudging one last fork into alignment, it once more firmly entrenched itself into its calling as _Sebastian._

Sebastian took no time at all to reach the young master’s study, because he was quick and efficient and knew the back stairs perfectly, and not at all because he was a creature that could flit through a hundred different shadows in the space of a human heartbeat.

He paused a moment before the closed door to put on his most charming grin, out of all the ones it practiced in the mirror late at night. Was Sebastian not a comely creature – no, _person_ – all aptitude, grace, and poise? There was no need to fear Sebastian, who wished only to serve the young master; no resentment fermenting into a rich brew of revenge, no ravening down to the marrow of entirely metaphorical bones. No, nothing of the sort.

It had been a vast catalogue of things in its existence; Sebastian would be whatever a little Earl required. He was as perfect as it could make him.

He rapped thrice on the door before opening it just enough to step through. “Young master? Please do pardon the intrusion, but dinner is—”

 _“No.”_ The young master’s voice was pitched to strike with all the force of a bullet. “I don’t think I will pardon you. Get out.”

The child was all a-tremble with rage, his clothing askew from a full day’s tantrum and his uncovered eye glassy-bright and glittering with malice. He might have made a more threatening sight were he not utterly dwarfed by the size of the desk he stood proud, if not tall, behind. Still, that sort of temper hardly promised a pleasant evening.

Sebastian further straightened his already perfect posture. “My lord, I am sure that whatever is troubling you–” he caught a pen aimed (probably) at his face “–will seem less vexing once you’ve–” ah, and there was the letter opener “–sat down for a proper meal and—”

He sidestepped a heavy volume that thudded against the door and out into the hall, a feat of strength he wouldn’t have thought the little brat capable of.

“My word,” he mused, glancing back over his shoulder at it. “This is all most uncalled for.”

He caught the bottle of ink, if only to spare himself the task of cleaning it up should it shatter.

“You’re uncalled for!” The little monster’s voice cracked mid-sentence. “Tonight, of all nights— Just go back downstairs and stay there! Leave me be! Do you understand me? That’s an order, you filthy beast!”

The mask of _Sebastian_ evaporated, and it stared down the boy holding its lead with bright eyes and lips curled over sharp teeth.

“Very well,” it snarled. The butler’s voice was pleasant and airy; its voice boiled up from somewhere deep in its chest and dripped heavy past jaws clenched like a sprung trap. “I shall leave you to yourself.”

It bowed with a degree of obsequiousness calculated to infuriate, but did not lower its head or avert its eyes as it backed from the room. Instead, it held that challenge until the door closed between them. Mere moments later, something struck against the surface hard enough to rattle the whole thing on its hinges, and the demon had its suspicions as to what.

No matter. Whatever it was, that was tomorrow’s problem. The Butler’s problem. The Demon dropped its collection of improvised missiles onto the plush hallway runner and dragged a hand through its hair.

 _‘Tonight, of all nights.’_ What had that nasty, spoiled little wretch been—?

Ah. Well. How odd time was, on a mortal scale.

Had it been a year already?

One year to the very day, it mused as it made its way through the halls and back down the stairs to whence it had been banished. There was an ill-defined dissatisfaction simmering through its being. Such a scene! So unjust! Had it not been a good servant? Had it not been the _best_ servant? Had it not—

It froze as it caught its reflection on one of the windowpanes in the hall, from an angle it was mostly – no, quite certain a human ought not to be able to see. Yes, that was…

A human ought not have an eye in such a place.

It stroked one gloved hand across its jawline, slowly, and the aberration disappeared as its fingers passed over. There. Better.

It continued on, rearranging hair and tidying clothes until no trace of it was visible and just Sebastian remained.

 _Much_ better.

Such a stately manor was a butler’s domain, no place for a beast at all. There were so very many rules; some spelled out, and some secret until he fell afoul of them. It all made for a wickedly complicated game to be caught up in.

Humans were wickedly complicated creatures. A demon’s life was a far simpler affair, ruled by far clearer impulses. Hunger, anger, boredom. If it was delicious? Consume it. Vexing? Destroy it. Amusing? Play with it, until it became one of the former.

“And yet the young master doesn’t want to play this evening.” Sebastian sighed. “After I’d gone to such effort over dinner. He, of everyone, should know that games are no fun alone.”

Although… _alone_ was no longer quite precisely correct, was it? The Old One had joined them lately. He was watching Sebastian now from just outside the door to the dining room. The _other_ butler, the _former_ butler, the useless doddering old creature that hadn’t managed to save anyone at all. The _house steward,_ no longer a servant but an employee; supposedly promoted as a reward for his long years of faithful service, but in truth simply because he was infirm and incapable and yet the nasty little brat still couldn’t bear to turn him out where he belonged, with all the other used-up rubbish.

The pointless creature watched him with a heavy and critical gaze as he set about clearing away all of the evening’s wasted efforts.

“And what are you doing?” the dumb thing asked him, sharp. Always soft and doting with _l’enfant terrible,_ while subjecting him to an ever-increasing level of scrutiny and displeasure.

Although the impulse to slam things about was hard to resist, Sebastian did not. There was little point in taking his frustrations out on the plates. “The little lord has declined to come down for his meal. Therefore,” he said slowly, in hopes that for once the message might penetrate the dim-wittedness unfortunately common to all of humankind, “I am clearing the table.”

“He is only a child. He needs to eat.”

Sebastian sighed. “He refuses, as he does whenever a foul mood takes him. I bring him warm milk when he retires. We repeat this dance endlessly. Let him go hungry once, if that is what is needed to make the lesson stick.”

Unsteady steps approached behind him – not too close, but close enough to vex. He did hate being bothered by humans ever so much.

“It isn’t your place to teach him lessons.”

“Is it yours, then? To coddle him into useless complacency, to assuage your…” He grasped at the air like he grasped for the word to describe yet another useless human emotion. “Nostalgia? Guilt?” He ran his gloved fingers along the gilt edge of the bread plate. “I have taught him _everything_ thus far. I will teach him this, too.”

“I’m not much impressed with what your lessons have made of him. Take him a tray.”

Sebastian did not bother to fix on one of his pretty smiles. He glanced back over his shoulder with the full weight of his general disdain. “He does not wish to be disturbed.”

The frail old thing leaned heavily on its walking stick. “So do not disturb him.” Also spoken slowly, as if to a particularly egregious moron. “There is no need to fuss and preen for praise as you do. You are a butler, not a jester; and the young master is still a child. He must eat. Take a tray up.”

Sebastian snarled. Snarled and scowled and began unstacking all the dishes to make the damned tray up while his left hand – and his pride – smarted and stung. This was all a direct contradiction to his child lord’s wishes, but perhaps today, at last, would be the day the wretched little idiot learned that he alone could have authority over his most occult of servants, if he ever wanted peace. Otherwise, the demon was well-pleased to take every command that fell from other lips and transmute them into his contractor’s misery through the power of spite alone.

“Very well,” he said as he made the firm decision to leave all sweets out of the evening’s selection. “If that is what the steward wishes. I am, after all, merely the butler.”

* * *

Ciel – he repeated it over and over again in his head; he was _Ciel,_ he was _Ciel,_ Ciel survived, _he was Ciel_ – slumped collapsed in his desk chair like a discarded marionette and trembled, pressing the heels of both his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. His shoulder throbbed from throwing himself against the unyielding wood of the door, as if his slight weight would have been an adequate barricade. The eyepatch under his hand only enraged him further, an inescapable reminder of _that night._

How dare that… that _thing,_ that damnable beast, show its face on this of all days? It thought itself so clever. Surely it should just know it wasn’t wanted in his presence today.

Every time he tried to let his mind go still and quiet, the things he shut away oozed out from behind the cracks in the wall he’d bricked them up with. The pain of the burning brand, the stench of the blood and the filth and the breath of those monsters, the—

_The altar._

It broke through every thought he tried to have. He couldn’t think of nothing; he couldn’t think of anything else. He stoked the furnace of his fury. It was all he had left to him. Rage, or collapse into despair.

His dry eyes burned with the pain of having no tears to shed. With that, and with…

The door to his study opened again.

The beast stepped through.

It didn’t even have the decency to knock. It kept its eyes downcast and its shoulders tucked in, its steps light and silent, and deposited the covered tray it bore onto his desk without any of the usual preening announcements of the day’s selection, and then it bowed and made to back away. Silent. Unobtrusive.

This mockery of meekness didn’t placate him in the least.

“I told you not to disturb me.” His voice was soft. Only the tremor of anger hinted at the implicit threat.

The thing kept its eyes to the floor. “My apologies. Your house steward—”

“I don’t want your apologies. I want you to _do as you’re told.”_

“And I have, my lord. If my master gives others authority over me as well as his own, how am I to tell _which_ orders—”

This. This _again._ It thought itself so much cleverer than he, didn’t it? So superior, this filthy, vile, thieving _beast._ His entire existence narrowed down into a pinprick of white-hot rage.

“Mine! My orders! You listen to _me!”_ To him. _Only_ to him. And he… and he was going to prove it. Right now. For good. “Kneel. Here. Right here. Stay.”

It did. “Yes, my lord.”

“Look at me.”

It did. Its eyes flicked over his face, brilliant red and evilly slitted, and he could just tell that it was judging him by some uncanny and unfathomable metric – judging him, and finding him lacking.

“Yes, my lord.”

He hated it. He hated it so much. He hated that _it_ was the reason he survived. He hated what it cost him. He hated that he hated it. He just…

He licked his lips, drew his hand back…

And struck it full across the face.

For one brief moment, he savored a warm burst of satisfaction.

And then the fire of calculation in his devil’s eyes sputtered out and died, to be replaced not by shock or anguish but instead by a dull ember of indifference. Boredom.

 _God,_ he hated that even more, somehow.

He lashed out again.

There was no change in the demon. No change in the _demon,_ but in him there sparked a sour-sweet twist of satisfaction. Didn’t this creature deserve it?

He struck again, on the same side. This time, the thing’s eye squinted at the impact.

That little twist began to bloom into something bigger. Brighter.

Didn’t this thing _deserve_ it?

Again.

Again.

_Again._

Each time, that thrill of satisfaction blossomed a bit more. He threw himself into his task, until his nerves sang and sweat prickled his scalp.

Ag—

His wrist was caught and stopped dead mid-swing by a grip that remained as soft and light as butterfly wings.

“Please, my lord. You’ll bruise your knuckles,” the thing – no. Sebastian. _Sebastian_ said, with blood dribbling sluggishly down from three cuts high on his cheekbone and a politely disinterested grin. “If you wish to continue, please use your stick instead,” the demon said sweetly, and offered up the implement on open palms. “Please. Go ahead. It will not change my wages in the slightest.”

Ciel froze – no, _he_ froze, because he had just – surely Ciel would never – but Ciel’s burdens were his to carry, _he_ was Ciel now. And while he struggled, Sebastian knelt there with those bored eyes and that fake smile, patiently waiting for the thrashing to continue. The weight of his guilt dropped down into his gut. The demon’s revenge was perfectly calculated.

But _God,_ didn’t he deserve it?

“Go,” he rasped through his suddenly tight throat.

Sebastian tilted his head up, but did not stand.

He snatched up his walking stick and tossed it away blindly. It thumped and clattered across the floor. _“Go.”_

Sebastian stood, but not fast enough. Couldn’t he just leave? Couldn’t he just disappear?

“Get _out!”_ he shrieked, voice cracking, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut.

As soon as he heard the door close, he pulled his knees up and hugged them tight. He felt hollow and wretched in a way that normally only came in the grip of night terrors. But after he screamed himself awake in miserable fits and starts, there was always warm milk and a hellish sentinel at his absolute command.

Now all he had was a meal he couldn’t stomach, and blood on a signet ring he was never meant to wear.

He curled himself tighter and cursed the burning of his eyes, even now still dry.

* * *

Sebastian slunk back down the halls toward the back stairs and ultimately, outside, at a pensive and unhurried sort of pace. And he _was_ Sebastian in that moment. It was imperative that he be only Sebastian, for the sake of the contract. Underneath that carefully constructed guise, the demon was churning with hunger… and with disappointment.

How dull the events of the evening had been! How common!

How quickly all of his hopes for this contract had collapsed. At first, the child had been very unlike the usual summoner. Those were slothful and greedy as a rule, and their wishes were senselessly petty things. Wealth, demanded the wealthy. Power, ordered the rulers of men. Love, begged the wretches that themselves held no love for kith or kin. Knowledge, cried the imposters too dim to reason on their own. Longevity, so asked by the lowest of fools…

For no human ever lived without regret when the dark abyss of a demon’s gullet was their inevitable end.

It seemed it must always come to this – the master, consumed with anger over the price they freely promised, lashed out at the servant for daring to do exactly what was agreed upon – one of the reliable beats by which a devil could measure its long life. Of course, it usually happened nearer to the time when payment was due; and very rarely did the terms restrict a demon so thoroughly. He himself had consumed a few souls earlier than planned over such ploys – but attempting murder to get free was a _definite_ breach of contract.

It would appear that this tiny master remained the most dreadful sort of liar.

_‘A servant must be paid his wages.’_

Ha. He poked at the tender flesh of his cheek. Ought he mend it? Or should he leave it to needle at the little lord’s conscience for a few days?

He rather thought he might.

He’d started to become something like fond of this one, but in the end, all humans were the basest and most loathsome sort of thieves. Best to bring this diversion to an end and move on quickly, one way or another.

He emerged from the servants’ corridors near the dining room again – he supposed he probably should clean the table, no matter his mood.

And it was there that he ran into The Old One again, once more usurping his duties. The man took in his stinging face with wide, startled eyes, and immediately rushed off without bothering with a pretense – to what?

To see that no injury had been done to his precious young master?

He choked up an ugly, bitter gout of laughter.

This was all becoming such a miserable farce.

To hell with the table. He deserved his own parody of supper instead.

There was a hutch in the kitchen gardens that held a few rabbits in reserve for slaughter, and house with a few laying hens. A hen would deprive the household of eggs, which was tempting; but the symbolism of the poor little bunny pleased his palate more.

A brief stop in the kitchen to fetch a bowl and then he was out into the comfort of the dark, cold night.

He seized a rabbit without much thought or care to which – terrified, quivering things, any of them would do. It won the privilege of a quick slaughter. He peeled off his gloves and opened its throat with claws sharper than any human blade. It thrashed and struggled, only briefly, but enough that he unspooled himself somewhat from his disguise to hold the doomed thing steady above the bowl. He didn’t care one whit for the flesh. It was the blood he was after.

It was blood that opened the gateway of his summoning.

The blood of _this_ unlucky little rabbit would do nothing to sustain him, but he’d have it all the same.

He carried the carcass with him back to the kitchen and abandoned it on the work table. It really ought to be gutted and hung in the larder for later. There was no sense in being wasteful. Besides – a bitter, breathy laugh escaped him – it would almost be like sharing a meal with his master. Quite unlike human confections, _that_ was something a demon could savor – a concept, the essence of an experience. Irony.

Not yet satisfied, he sought out more to sweeten his sacrifice to himself. Herbs. Spices. Yes, those would do nicely – if only because humans placed a value on them, and he dearly wanted to cost the nasty brat something further than he already had.

If this were a proper summoning, his master would be preparing his evening ‘meal.’ There would be candles and sigils. Theatrics. The savory thread of fear as his prey plied him with offerings in a hopeless attempt to court his favor and escape their fate. That, too, was inevitable. They always fell to the delusion that they could make their demon _love_ them; that service would ever be willing and not merely the degradation with which a devil was forced to buy its next meal if it did not want to scavenge through the gutters for filth not even the reapers would miss.

He chose his seasonings greedily and with little care for the combinations he’d learnt were pleasing to human tongues. Instead, he sought them out by symbolism and association. Cardamom, marjoram, basil, ginger. Ah, _cloves_. An old apothecary had once doused him with an infusion of cloves in an attempt to banish him. It hadn’t worked, of course, but it had smelled delightful.

He paused in his work and stirred the mixture with one finger, which he then licked clean.

Hm. Complex. Nostalgic.

Still, it was missing something. What else did humans use as offerings?

He considered the key to the cellar.

Perhaps…?

* * *

The door to his study opened once more.

Ciel jerked his head up, ready with a final order to just _leave_ —

But it was Tanaka who stood in the doorway, his wrinkles deepened by a frown of concern. “Young master–” though his lips first silently formed the start of a different, yet similar, title, before he caught himself. “Are you… well?”

 _Ciel_ hunched his shoulders and dropped his gaze down to his desk. “Please, I just want to be left alone this evening.”

Tanaka was not dissuaded. He stepped inside and closed the door gingerly, with barely a sound. “Forgive me, but I saw _that man_ and I had to come. There is no shame in—”

“No shame?!” He pressed his lips tight together as hunger and guilt combined to turn his stomach over again.

“Has he hurt you? You can send him away, young master. Whatever is—”

“No,” Ciel whispered. “No, we can’t do that.”

He looked up at Tanaka, who even a year later was still recovering from the wounds he suffered _that night_ , if he would ever fully recover at all. He could hear the old man’s creaky knees, and he was a curious combination of blanched and flushed from the effort of rushing to his charge’s side.

Ciel stood from his chair and stepped aside. “Gramps, sit.”

“I couldn’t—”

But he ignored the objections and clambered up to perch on the edge of the desk. By the time he succeeded, he was flushed from effort as well. “Sit. I think… there are things we should discuss.”

He hoped that made him sound like a proper adult, and not an eleven year old hopelessly out of his depth.

Slowly – very slowly – Tanaka took the seat. “You’re… quite certain he didn’t harm you?”

And he reached for Ciel’s hand; the one bearing the ring that still had drying blood crusted into the engraving. Though Ciel hated being touched now, he allowed it. For a moment, they were not an aristocrat and his servant, only two survivors of a terrible ordeal.

“No. He – I’ve done something I’m not proud of. Gramps, why would you even ask such a thing?”

“You asked that I stay as your steward, to mind the accounts and pay your servants. But, young master… there is only one servant, and you are not paying him…”

Ciel was taken aback. “Not… he never asked for _money_ …”

That was a statement that didn’t ease Tanaka’s concerns in the slightest. “If not money, then—”

“We made a… highly particular arrangement.” The boy struggled for a moment, his dignity warring with the certainty that old man Tanaka was not easily fooled, nor likely to let the matter of his welfare go; although he’d so far proven willing to… overlook… certain matters. “Whatever harm you’re imagining, whatever changes you’re noticing… it wasn’t _Sebastian’s_ doing.”

“You are aware, young master, that I would protect you with my life?”

“...Yes. But though you may find it hard to believe, he would as well. I am aware that he is… _suspicious_ … but Sebastian’s loyalty is absolute, and to him, my word is law.”

Tanaka did not seem convinced. “If you’ll forgive me, I also cannot help but notice that name is—”

“Yes. It is.”

Ciel thought of all the strange and fantastical tales Tanaka once told him, stories from the homeland of his youth, far better than any common nursery fare. He thought of them and fervently hoped the old man would dismiss any such thoughts as absurd fancy… or at least keep them to himself. Despite all of his efforts and scolding, Sebastian was still just… _uncanny._

“This is… no different than Watchdog business,” he continued. It would be best not to think too much on it.”

Tanaka squeezed his hand and lowered his eyes. “I see.”

“I should have been more clear from the start. Sebastian answers to me alone. I did not request your return to manage him. I…” The young Earl swallowed through the inconvenient tightening of his throat. “It would have been poor form to repay your loyalty by turning you out to the streets, and… That is, we two are—”

Tanaka bowed his head. “I understand, my _Lord Ciel._ I must apologize for any difficulty my misunderstanding has brought you.” 

“Please, Gramps. You thanked him at the hospital. Can you not continue that way, however unsavory he is? There is a great deal he could learn from you, and it would ease my mind if you two were at peace.”

“...As you say, young master.” Tanaka looked once more to the bloodied ring. “I am aware this is indelicate, but I must ask…?”

Ciel caught his lip between his teeth and avoided the old man’s eyes. “It’s been a year to the day since we met, and I… I truly shouldn’t have done it.”

He pulled his hand back out of Tanaka’s warm grip. No, he shouldn’t have done it. Certainly, the demon had deserved it – would always deserve it – but to mete out violence thoughtlessly? He was an Earl, not a beast.

He should have kept his wits about him, and only struck Sebastian the once.

“I will have to make my own peace with him. Come with me. I need help chipping some ice.”

* * *

Sebastian was quite pleased with the results of his looting.

He’d taken a wool blanket for his bed, as he’d never been given one. He’d also never needed one, as he’d never slept in the bed. He’d have it anyway.

He’d taken the coke to get a good fire going in his hearth. It was the very first time he’d lit the fireplace since being shown to his room. He was rather more resilient to temperatures than a mortal. Still, it was something the brat would have to provide a human, so he was going to do for Sebastian as well.

His efforts in the cellar had also proved more than satisfactory.

And so, well-provisioned, he’d transferred his… he supposed it was a soup of _some_ sort… to a mug, that he might drink it one-handed, and settled down in his chair with a collection of Le Fanu for a little light reading. (The one featuring the demon was particularly amusing.)

He spared a splinter of his attention for the goings-on in the rest of the manor, but paid them little mind until he heard two equally unsteady sets of footsteps enter the pantry – _his_ pantry, thank you very kindly.

 _‘Perhaps I ought to go inquire as to the little lord’s needs,’_ he considered, quite briefly indeed. He then considered that he’d been backhanded upward of twenty times not terribly long ago. _‘No. I shan’t.’_

Once was a bit of a jest. Twenty was a shameful tantrum from a wretched whelp who was welcome to scald both himself and his milk for supper that evening.

He turned the page and read through what was truly just an appalling racket and clatter.

Both pairs of footsteps approached, stealthily enough for humans. One stopped out in the corridor, likely close enough to be in earshot. The second, smaller and clumsier and scuffing along the floor where feet dragged with pangs of hunger, continued on to his quarters.

The door, of course, was opened without leave and his little master stepped inside.

Sebastian noted that he did not shut it behind him.

“Come here, Sebastian. I’ve brought you— are you drinking?”

Sebastian took another draw from the mug, and was not dainty about it. The blood left a film on his teeth that he didn’t lick clean. “Just a little snack, my lord.”

His tiny tyrant started at the sight in a most pleasing way.

“A little snack?” The boy drew closer, pointing angrily at the bottle on the desk. In his other hand, he was clutching a bundled up dishcloth. “That’s my Amontillado.”

Sebastian glanced aside at the bottle. “So it is. But a child does not have much use for sherry.”

“And what use do _you_ have for it?!”

He turned his head to better face the boy, and made sure to angle himself so the firelight fell most strikingly across his battered cheek. “Spite.”

That drew the brat up short.

“That is… fair, I suppose.” He fidgeted in an attempt to not shuffle his feet, which succeeded most wonderfully in drawing attention to his urge to shuffle his feet, and held out the dishrag. “Here. For your face.”

“Oh, my lord, I must decline. I am not sure _what_ lesson, precisely, you aimed to teach. Would it not be better to let it sink in?” He let his eyes fall half-closed to enhance the insolence of the act, and took another sip. The blood slid thick and sticky and heavily spiced across his tongue, the sherry adding a pleasant frisson of malice to the mix. “Would you care to use your stick after all?”

“No, I would _not._ Just—”

“Are you quite certain? I’ll fetch it for you, if you wish.” Sebastian did not have to _obey_ orders if his tiny master could not deliver them; a most excellent loophole.

His brat seemed to catch on to his game. With a furious scowl, he lurched forward and attempted to shove the cloth directly into Sebastian’s face. Alas, the length of the demon’s legs and the comparative _lack_ of length to the boy’s arms meant that his efforts fell significantly short.

 _‘Oh my, what a pathetic effort,’_ Sebastian thought to say–

–before he was taken aback by a bony knee being planted on the seat alongside his thigh and the sudden assault upon his person by lapful of angry child. The dishcloth – and the shards of ice wrapped therein – was smacked into his face with enough force to be considered one more strike to add to the tally.

“Take the ice, _Sebastian_.”

With both hands occupied and his legs pinned by his master straddling them, the demon was forced to concede that, in this shape at least, he was rather thoroughly trapped. He set the book aside. He started to reach for the ice, but as he did so the child shifted his knee and wobbled backwards precariously. Sebastian quickly braced him with a palm between the shoulderblades.

He could stretch any condition a great deal with enough motivation, but even he would have difficulty justifying it should he let his young master dash his head open on the hearthstones.

He’d agreed to protect the boy – and unlike humans, he was a creature of his word.

 _How troublesome._ He sighed. “I am not a piece of furniture, my lord.”

The boy peered up at him through his fringe, and the lashes of one big blue eye. “You would be. If I told you to.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Sebastian answered, not bothering to fully mask his boredom. “I am yours to command.”

The brat responded by grinding the sharp ice against his cheekbone, with the dishcloth making an exceptionally poor cushion. “It’s been a year.”

Ah, so they were not yet done with this. “To the day. Nearly to the hour, I’d wager.”

“I’d have died, if you hadn’t heard me.”

“Yes, that seems quite assured.”

Most unexpectedly, the boy fell forward to bury his face against his demon’s shoulder. “I hate that I depend on you so,” he muttered, somewhat muffled.

His breath was unpleasantly warm and damp against Sebastian’s neck.

“Well, my young master, they do say that you can’t have everything you wish for. Although…”

A small hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked sharply in warning. “ _Do_ shut up.”

That had the firm press of a command to it; and so, he did.

Humans, the demon had often observed, touched each other a shocking amount; but not _this_ one, who could scarcely endure the social nicety of a handshake. And yet, the demon handled this peculiar little creature so often it was no longer worth counting. He had his own theory – that to the child, his will in the matter amounted to no more than that of a stuffed toy, which was enough to render the experience bearable.

And though Sebastian quite hated to admit it – particularly as the events of the day were a most heinous affront to his dignity as a demon – it was undeniably hilarious to consider that his company was preferable to that of the brat’s own kind. Most regrettably, the little wretch was not entirely boring yet, after all.

So the demon sat, quite still, with a lapful of bitter little rabbit clinging to his shirt and supped on the remains of his own mock sacrifice.

The ice melted and dripped cool down one side of his neck, and the boy’s breath was humid and off-puttingly sticky against the other, and he was trapped between them by the facade of care he’d built for the child, both everything and nothing all at once.

The Old One peered into the room, probably lured by the long silence, and raised his brows at the sight he was met with. ( _Tanaka_ – something in Sebastian was dreadfully insistent on supplying, when no scolding followed.)

Sebastian drained the dregs of his mug – gritty with herbs, and clotting – so that he could safely set it aside. As an afterthought, he used his tongue to scour his teeth clean. That done, he braced the boy with one forearm under his rump and stood.

“It has been a very trying day, young master. I think some sleep would serve you well.”

The boy mumbled something, roused from a light daze.

“Sebastian?” He said as they crossed into the corridor. “I shouldn’t have struck you. Like that.”

The… _Tanaka_ … fell into step behind them.

“It isn’t fitting for a gentleman to thrash his servants so,” Sebastian agreed. “It’s for the best that we have no housemaids, if that’s how you intend to behave.”

“I didn’t _intend_ to!” The boy clung to him a bit tighter. “I—!”

“Hmm. I see.”

They continued in silence out into the entry hall and up to the foot of the main stair. Somewhat surprisingly, that was where their shadow bowed his head and willingly parted ways.

Still, he waited until they were nearly to the young master’s bedroom before he allowed himself to contemplate the many petty vengeances he could enact for the events of the day. He smoothed his charge’s ruffled hair, and did not bother to smother his devilish grin.

“No, my little lord,” Sebastian agreed again in a much more honest tone, bitingly sweet, now that he was at liberty to speak truthfully. “You _truly_ shouldn’t have.”

**Author's Note:**

> And so we have reached the end of the story that I made this account to post. I do not know if I will be back again, friend, but I hope that you have at least enjoyed this small offering of mine.


End file.
